TOM SAYERS.
Tom Sayers, a fellow of lofty dimensions was brought up on an assault warrant, charged with having broken the nose of one Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, against the peace, &c.
Tom Sayers is a man who, during the late Peninsular war, "sought the bubble reputation, e'en in the cannon's mouth," as a British grenadier. Whether he found it or not, we are unable to say; but certain it is that he now enjoys the reputation of being an admirable culinary bricklayer—a dexterous setter of kitchen ranges; and with this reputation he is fully satisfied—handling his trowel, and dandling his little ones, and cherishing his wife, and drinking his beer, in peace and thankfulness.
Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, notwithstanding his uncommon name, is as common a looking concern as possible—a dirty little land-lubber in a seaman's dress, with a queer nose, queerly decorated on this occasion with divers broad straps of sticking-plaister—à la Baron Munchausen.
"An please your worship," said Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, with his hat grasped in both hands, and giving the floor a long scrape with his off foot—"an please your worship, last Tuesday night, as ever was, I goz into the Crown, in Seven Diles, thinking of nothin at all."
"Very likely,"—said his worship.
"Thinking of nothin at all," continued Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, "an ax'd for a pint of porter; an there were this here gentleman, Mr. Sayers, singing a song; an, becoz I said the song was all gammon, he punch'd my head, as your worship may see by my nose, an the landlord chucked me out before I'd half drink'd my beer!—an that's the whole truth about it, as Mr. Sayers can't deny if he's a mind to speak."
"I shall speak when his honour gives me orders," said tall Tom Sayers—drawing up himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders, turning out his toes, and placing his thumbs exactly in line with the seams of his dusty trousers—"I shall speak when his honour gives me orders."
His honour told him he was ready to hear anything he might have to say.
"Thank your honour," said honest Tom Sayers—with a hand-over-brow salute, and without losing the twentieth part of an inch in his altitude—"thank your honour! Your honour sees that I had been setting a stove grate and oven, for the landlord of the Crown here; with which setting he was pleased to say he was very well satisfied: and he asked me to take a pint of beer in token of the same. Just then, in comes my wife, with my child in her arms, to see whether I had done my job, and to walk home with me. I was pleased to see her, your honour—God bless her!—and I was pleased to see my child, and I was pleased that the landlord was pleased with my work; and so I took the child on my knee, and my wife and I sat down, side by side on the settle, to drink the pint of beer the landlord had given me. There he is! If I tell a lie, let him say so."